


You Make Me Want to Run and Run and Run

by Tosa



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Cannibalism, Drabble, Gore, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 09:27:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tosa/pseuds/Tosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You make me feel so young, Will," he chuckles, like you're talking over coffee and not a corpse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Make Me Want to Run and Run and Run

**Author's Note:**

> uh i wrote this last May and completely forgot about it until now lol. it was originally going to be part of a larger work, but honestly, i think it works best on its own. the title is a bastardization of lyrics from "you make me feel so young"
> 
> happy valentine's day!!!!

You have never had raw meat before. The word _umami_ flashes in your mind, along with rust, along with every time you ever lost a baby tooth, or the many instances where you gored the inside of your mouth chewing through anxiety. The flesh sits on your tongue, forced there by Hannibal's fingers. He is force feeding it to you, raw people, and even with the blood coating his fingers, even having just freshly brutalized a human being he still looks so god damn _composed_ , so mature and in control, and he behaves as if your sputtering and coughing around human flesh is the equivalent to a baby refusing milk, he looks at you like it's fine, you'll swallow it if he only keeps cramming it down your throat. The weight of his fingers, the flesh on your tongue is like fingers on the trigger of a gun, and a bullet of bile rises up in your throat. Instead of pondering the consequences of vomiting on Hannibal Lecter, you think, _good._ You think this proves you still have boundaries.

He catches you gagging and moves. You vomit. He isn't angry, in fact he laughs lightly, says he got a bit excitable, didn't he, says he should have prepared you a nice meal for your first voluntary taste instead of this ghastly lion's feast. He was just so caught up in the moment, the fervor of a first kill experienced all over again. _You make me feel so young, Will,_ he chuckles, like you're talking over coffee and not a corpse. Your mouth tastes like blood and rot and you don't say anything because you don't have the words. You stare at the floor, the measly, small-looking hunk of flesh you couldn't eat, now splattered in stomach acid, at Hannibal's shoes receding so that he can properly attend to the body.

The body, your body, the human being the two of you, together, reduced to a mere body. Every inch of your skin feels like it's on fire. Hannibal is talking, but you don't hear what he's saying. You're not sure if it's meaningful or if he is merely trying to calm you, to lull you into complacency in that way he does.

Your face twists, and it feels oddly like it's moving on its own, like invisible fingers are twisting the muscles from the inside, and you're crying. You're bawling, and suddenly there are hot, slick hands on your face, a voice hushing you, and the entire god damn reason you've reached the point of no return is cooing that it will all be alright, it is just the rush of emotions, the loss of dopamine and adrenaline and the callous interruption of an archaic morality system taking their place. Something akin to “fuck off” passes through your lips, garbled by gross sobbing, and he replies that you needn’t feel ashamed for crying. He says, wiping his fingers along your tears, trailing blood in their wake, that you cannot control yourself any more than an insect burdened by a parasitic fungus. He says, kissing your face, lips and tongue not so subtly soaking up the taste of the blood he spread there, that you will be rid of the vestiges of that parasite in no time.

It is not hard, he says, to shed moral obligation. You are a mere dog, conditioned at the bang on a bell to feel shame, guilt, pain when you step outside arbitrary lines. You want to ask, if you are a dog, then who is he? Your spasming, leaking face warps your words so that all that comes out is, “Who are you?”, but he understands. Of course he understands.

“I am the doctor who will soothe your ringing ears.”

He bites your lip hard enough to draw blood. It shocks you how different the taste is from the mass of blood and flesh you just sampled, the traces lingering on Hannibal's tongue. You wonder if he notices it, that different people have different tastes.

(Of course he would, you correct yourself. He's been at this for far longer than you have.)

He leaves you to clean up your shared mess. You don't look. You know what he's doing, you think, guessing from sounds and logic and movements in the corner of your eye, but you refuse to look up and watch it happen. No witnesses, you think. If you don't see it, you don't have to lie about it later.

There's enough that you're already going to have to lie about.


End file.
